Page 88 of Malicious Claim

Leila approached him, her heels clicking on the marble floor as if nothing had just happened. The man rolled over onto his back to face her with his gun but she shot again—head, chest, belly. A controlled, methodical killing.

The silence after the final shot was stifling. The tension remained in the air, heavy and electric. A few of the guests continued to cower behind bits of furniture, their eyes wide with terror. One man whimpered behind the concierge counter.

Then, the receptionist who’d scarcely even blinked, breathed a sigh, slumping against the counter in a casual stance. "Close call. I almost beat you to it."

With that, she pulled out a gold revolver from behind the counter and laid it on the shiny surface, and it fell with a muffled clank.

Leila looked at her.

Then the gun.

Then at her again.

The woman just winked and went back to typing at her computer, as if the assassination in the center of the hotel lobby was a usual sight, a small inconvenience.

Makros slapped a hand over his wound, scowling as he faced Leila. "Enough gawking. Get in the elevator."

She paused for another moment, then tore her gaze away from the receptionist and followed him into the elevator.

The doors slid shut.

The hotel suite was opulent, dripping with gold and marble, but Leila had only one thing on her mind—the first aid kit she found in the bathroom cabinet.

Makros sat in a chair, blood dripping through his tunic. He watched her move with chilly intent.

She thought for one shattering moment to let him bleed to death and die, but Makros was hers to kill on her own time, in the prettiest possible way and so she would patch him up.

She knelt down next to him, tearing open the kit. The bullet had lodged near his ribs.

"Shirt off," she ordered.

Makros smiled through the agony. "At least wait, let's go home first."

Leila glared at him coldly before she reached for the fabric and tore it open herself, exposing his wound. His smirk fell.

She worked rapidly, pulling out the tweezers and gauze. The bullet wasn't deep, but she still needed to dig in order to take it out. Her hands were steady, too steady.

Makros watched her carefully.

"You're calm under pressure," he stated.

She didn't reply. She packed a wad of gauze on the wound, applying firm pressure to stop the bleeding.

He was watching her hands.

The same hands that had hesitated before. The same hands that had trembled when she pointed his gun at him.

Now, they worked with precision.

She reached for the needle and thread, threading it swiftly before pressing the needle into his skin. Makros hissed, but he didn’t flinch.

“You’ve done this before,” he noted.

Leila remained silent, focused. The needle weaved in and out, pulling the wound shut.

Makros tilted his head, his gaze never leaving her face.

She was different.

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